February 24th.
Just a line this morning. Am getting ready for my American bridge party, with prizes, this afternoon. I have some lovely large Ravell photographs in good old frames.
Last night Patchin, the very agreeable young Tribune correspondent, came for dinner; we had the usual political conversation afterward. Clarence Hay read a poem of his (which I will later inclose) on the murder of young Gen. Gabriel Hernandez, last July, by Enrique Zepeda, then governor of the Federal district. Zepeda is called a “nephew” of Huerta, but is supposed to be his son. Zepeda gave a supper to which N. was invited; at the last moment, press of work made him unable to assist. The gods were with him that time, for, after the supper, at midnight, Zepeda, very much allumé, went to the Penitenciaría where General Hernandez was imprisoned, took him out into the patio, and shot him dead. His men then burned the body, over which they were thoughtful enough to first pour kerosene. Zepeda was put in jail for eight months, and is just out. When he isn’t intoxicated he is almost “American” in his ideas, it appears.
Wednesday, February 25th.
Last night we went to the station to see Sir Lionel off. I thought the cheers that went up as the train moved out of the station were for him, but it seems they were for some departing bull-fighters, who are always first in the hearts of their countrymen. It appears that Sir Lionel is carrying with him documents, plans, maps, etc., with a collection of fully authenticated horrors committed by the rebels in their campaign. He may not get an opportunity of laying them before President Wilson, but he will enjoy showing them to Sir Cecil Spring-Rice.
Yesterday, from the governor’s palace in Chihuahua, Villa gave forth a statement about the killing of Benton. He was seated on a throne-like chair on a raised dais, in almost regal style, his followers surrounding him and doing him homage. The gubernatorial palace is fitted up with the greatest luxury, the houses of the wealthiest residents of the town having been sacked for the purpose. Consider the picture of that untutored, bloody-handed brigand, surrounded by his spoils and his “courtiers.” He has never heard how “uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” but he will doubtless have some practical experience of it. He has contradicted himself repeatedly in his statements about the killing of Benton. The body, bearing its mute testimony of being riddled with bullets by a firing-squad, lies under a heap of refuse.
XVI
Huerta’s impressive review for the special correspondents—The Grito de Dolores—Tons of “stationery” for the Embassy—Villa and Carranza disagree—The Embassy guard finds itself occupied.
February 26th. Noon.
We are just home, after seeing the review (from Chapultepec through town to the Zocalo) of all the troops now in the city. They were turned out for the benefit of the special correspondents, invited to the gay scene by Huerta, and the government is paying all the expenses. The regular correspondents in town feel rather peeved about the matter. We sat in the motor in the Zocalo, under the cloudless sky and soft, penetrating sun, and watched the défilé. The banner of the Twenty-ninth bore the long, red streamer that Huerta had tied on the other day, with trembling fingers. The troops were all well armed. They had new rifles and new, well-filled cartridge-belts, and the effect was most encouraging—for Huerta. The special correspondents, from the windows of the Palace, had their cameras and cine machines in action. Really, Huerta has done wonders to keep the troops together so well and so long, in the face of such overwhelming odds. The bugle-calls and the martial music echoed over the Plaza—the setting for so many centuries of the hopes and fears, the beginnings and the endings, of these Mexican people.